“Yes, how would I know them? They’re not from a letter you wrote to Russ. They’re from a letter you wrote to your father. One that Martha said she sent to him in Berlin. Am I right?”

“Yes, weeks ago . . .” said Gail. I saw a terrible fear rising in her face.

“And yet I read it, Gail, I held it in my hands just yesterday. The original. In your handwriting. With an ink stain on it from this bottle that spilled only two nights ago, when Russ was getting your letter from this desk.” I had to say it to her, even knowing what it meant. “Why was that letter still in this country, Gail?”

Gail looked from me to Martha and to the lower right-hand desk drawer.

Martha started to speak, but Gail had already opened the drawer and was going through its contents.

In the background, I could hear the powerful engines of a seaplane revving.

“Oh no.” Gail spoke in a frightened little voice. Trembling, she held up several sheaves of notepaper, all of which bore her handwriting. “These were the letters I wrote to him.” She flipped through the pages. “August, July . . .”

Martha made no effort to explain, as if there was no longer any reason to lie.

“I guess you know why they were never mailed,” I said sadly.

“Oh no, and these!” moaned Gail, flipping through other, smaller notes, on cheaper paper. “Letters from him. Letters I never received.”

I said, “Gail, I’m sure they let him write to you every day but told him not to mention time or events. They’re all real expressions of his feelings, I’m sure. But I think they kept the letters here, and delivered one of them to you every month or so. Who knows how long ago he wrote them.” In despair, Gail turned to Martha, who was making no pretense of kindness or concern now. Gail fell upon the room’s carpet, holding her arms around herself, sobbing without sound. I held her, trying to comfort her. She shook me away.

The front door opened, and Gunther stepped in.

“Things are ready,” he said. His gun was drawn.

Martha went over to Gail, took her arm, and pulled her up with a strong tug. “Come on,” said Martha. “We have a plane to catch.”

Chapter 53

53

The Seaplane

Gail and I were being marched from the bungalow toward the water near the parking lot’s edge. Martha and Gunther walked behind us, their guns aimed at our backs. Martha had advised us we would be shot without hesitation if we stopped. We would be shot if we ran. This much I knew: we were going to be shot.

“If my father is dead, why am I flying anywhere?” Gail asked aloud.

“We’re taking you to pick up his body, so that you can bury him where you wish. We’re very sorry he died. He became ill in prison.”